


Just Because You Regret It Doesn't Mean It's Fixed

by TN_Night



Series: #JeanMarcoWeek2015 [7]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Suicide, JeanMarco Week, M/M, Regret, Sad Ending, Suicide, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:57:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TN_Night/pseuds/TN_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean visits Marco's grave to say his last goodbye.</p><p>Written for JeanMarco Week day 7: Regrets</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Because You Regret It Doesn't Mean It's Fixed

 

 

Jean dragged his feet as he slowly walked down the cobblestone path that weaved through the uneven rows of gravestones. His head was held low and his hand slightly crushed the flowers he was holding, the brown paper wrapped around them crinkling under the pressure.

 

He made it to the very back of the graveyard, where the small forest of trees shaded the few stones in the area. An old worn wooden bench sat on the side of the path, just a few feet away from the reason of his visitation. 

 

He twisted around the bench, coming to sit in front of a classically shaped light grey tombstone. The grave he now sat down in front was now one year old that day– or rather, the person who the grave was _for_ had been gone a year ago today. The patch of dirt that once stuck out like a sore thumb now blended in with the rest of the dark green grassy ground, only able to grow from constant care from others and the small rays of sun that snuck their way through the cracks in the leaves overhead. 

 

The seventeen year old sat down in front of the stone, placing the flowers down in front of himself and willing himself not to immediately look up at the date and name engraved on the rock in front of him, knowing he'd cry if he did. Yet of course, despite his best efforts, it felt disrespectful to not at least look up, like he wasn't even able to look in his own best friend's eye. 

 

He slowly lifted his head, eyes taking in the words–

 

_In Loving Memory Of_

_Marco Bodt_

_1998–2014_

 

He smiled, a few of the tears he'd kept at bay thus far rolling down the sides of his face and watering the greenery below. It didn't matter how many times he read it, he still cried. For a few reasons– the obvious, for one. His best friend's death had been suffocating, he'd fallen into the same hell the other had after he'd gone, he still wasn't the same and probably never would be without his childhood friend by his side. Another reason he cried was because of the years, he would never be able to look at those numbers and understand why such a wonderful person had to die at the young young age of sixteen. 

 

Jean thinks that the biggest reason he cries every time he visited, every time he read the engravings, every time he remembered his friend, was because he regretted the fact that he was most likely the one who put Marco six feet under the ground he was seated on. 

 

Not literally, of course. But ever since Mrs. Bodt and his mother had sat him down one day and had explained what happened, how his best friend had taken– no, even ever since the other was _diagnosed_ with depression, Jean just felt like he'd…failed, in some manner. And when they'd told him he wasn't here anymore it just…He knew, he _knew_ he could've done more to help the other through everything that brought him down, he just wasn't attentive or _good enough_ to do anything. 

 

He'd tried, though. It wasn't like he did nothing at all. He'd answered the teary phone calls at three am, he'd given him a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold. When Marco didn't talk for ages, Jean filled the space with his own words, to make the other more comfortable. He'd watch the rain with him, letting him loosely sketch on Jean's workbooks while the other did work on his laptop instead. Any other situation one could think of to help comfort another, Jean did. Yet he still didn't think he did well enough. 

 

He could've come and been with Marco on the nights he _didn't_ call, knowing full well that just because he didn't contact him didn't mean he wasn't in pain at that moment. Jean knew that Marco didn't call all the time, he didn't want to be a bother. 

 

He smiled, _'You were never a bother, Marco.'_

 

Jean didn't just regret not being there for him more, he regretted not telling him things. Admitting stupid things like how he stole his iPod when they were twelve, or how he was the one who accidentally lost his hamster when they were playing outside that one time as little kids.

 

He regretted not telling his best friend and longtime crush that he loved him, that he never wanted to ruin or jeopardize their relationship as friends, so he shut his mouth, even though he knew he most likely would've accepted the fact and not changed anything if not even reciprocated his feelings.

 

Not that any of that really mattered now, no regret or heartfelt apology for not being there more could rise the dead, nothing could. Nothing would. What was done was done and all he could do was sit there and…think about it. 

 

It was something he did way too often, a civil war going on in his mind between the pros and cons of forgetting the past and moving on, or stopping his own personal clock, and ruining the lives of many other people. Jean knew that there was so much more to life than grieving, but when you've lost one of your main reasons for living, and everyone just keeps saying, "Wait a year, this'll pass and you'll get better," even after a year is up, it's kind of hard not to think of following in the footsteps of a major influence. 

 

Either way, that sort of thing was something he'd decided a long week ago. No going back now, he supposed. 

 

Jean sat there for another minute, his eyes closed while he breathed in the scent of grass and flowers and listened to the sound of chirping birds and buzzing bugs. Smiling again, he stood up, bending down and pressing a kiss to the top of the grave.

 

"Love ya, Marco," he said finally, leaving his best friend's grave for the last time. 

 

 

 


End file.
